Blog post by Helen Zheng

Streamside

I sat by a stream the other day, watching a Weeping Willow grow on the other side of the bank. For just a moment, I lived in a world of my own. Society couldn’t reach me there, only the warm wind rustling through the forest of cattails and the tall blades of grass. A garden of colors surrounded me: red Lobelia, purple Pickerelweed, white Water Lilies. In the language of flowers, Lobelias symbolize community. Pickerelweeds symbolize a good heart. Water Lilies symbolize resurrection. Natural beauty encompasses us, and yet, when I returned to humankind, I saw children playing on artificial grass in their yards, imitation plants decorating their homes. Why can’t we just sit back and enjoy the flowers? Grow them with our own hands, nurture them, and watch them flourish? The French Hydrangea in someone’s yard, once a bubble of pastel petals, has its stalks cut. Its limbs are strewn across the yard, only capable of decomposition. With the changing seasons, people thrive; new factories and innovations delight every generation. The world goes on, but where will all the newborn flowers go?

Blog post by Jonas Sezpessy

 Mechanical Woes

The heavy metal door of science facility 9-b came crashing down. The mechanical hum, and the beeping of devices, which before had seemed deafening, were now no louder than a pin drop. Past the broken door, a man walked through the dust. His footsteps lacked the warmth of flesh, instead they contained the cold clanking of metal and the whirring of mechanical joints.

As he walked through the facility, he took no notice of the rooms he passed, rooms filled with strange devices, beings grown in tubes, or the odd hybrid animals. The man was only concerned with the last room at the end of the hall. The one labeled “Bio-Mechanics.” The room brought back painful memories, but it had been a long time since he had possessed the ability to cry.

Finally, he reached the room at the end of the hall, the room at the end, the very first room the facility had used. The door opened even though the man had done nothing. Then an old, welcoming voice said, “come in C-1.0.” So C-1.0 walked through the door.

To others, the darkness inside the room would have seemed frightening, but not for C-1.0, this is how he had been made, and this is where he had been made.

In the middle of the room, with his back turned, and tinkering with an old watch, sat a little old man. His hair was messy and gray, and he had a long unkempt beard. When C-1.0 entered, he turned around, looked up, put on a sad little smile and said, “Hello.” 

Rage was the only response that C-1.0 had in response to such a greeting. How could this man, this monster who had taken everything from him, greet him so casually? C-1.0, in his silent, mechanical fury, lunged at the old man, but was stopped by some invisible, mechanical device.

“I know you’re here to kill me--I know--and with good reason too, but in the last moments of my life, I just want someone to talk to, and you deserve an explanation.” 

There was a tired quality to the old man’s voice, as though he had just given up on some long-term goal. Being held in place by some invisible force, C-1.0 could only listen to the old man go on: “I’ve spent a long time on this earth; I spent my early years furiously studying robotics. I never thought about love or anything like that. By the time I was in my late forties and had my doctorate, most of life had completely passed me by. Then, during one research program, I met a beautiful young woman. We fell in love and got married. A year later, we had a daughter, but my wife died shortly after in a car accident.” There was a pain behind his words, but it was the kind of pain that one has had a long time to deal with. He continued, “All I had left was my daughter, but when she turned ten, she got sick and began to slowly fade away and die.”

As he was talking, the old man went around the room, tinkering with several devices. During this time, C-1.0 had slowly been regaining the ability to move, but he wanted to hear more so that he could understand why he had been hurt in such a way. 

The old man, now experiencing a much newer pain, began to struggle as he explained, “I couldn’t bear the thought of losing my little girl, but all I knew was robotics. So I designed a mechanical body for her, but I had no funding. I turned to the army. I told them I could design a supersoldier for them. They agreed and set up this facility for me to work in. I had the funding, but I couldn’t just put my daughter in an untested robot body, so I used soldiers. Amputees, cancer patients, anyone who was sick and desperate. Many died during the procedure, those that survived couldn’t bear the memory of the pain. So I had to get rid of the memory.”

C-1.0 wasn’t sure what he was hearing. 

The old man explained, “ You were one of those people, an amputee that the army thought could be repurposed. You were the first person to survive the operation, but your mind had been warped by the memory, so I had to remove your memory or the army would stop funding. That’s who you are C-1.0.”

Never in all his short memory had C-1.0 wanted to cry more. Even when he first realized that he was not just a machine but also a man, and that he was supposed to have memories, had he been this upset.

“The facility had grown around me, and my daughter’s condition was getting worse. We had managed to get rid of the pain, but the survival rate was only fifty-two percent. I was desperate and attempted the operation. That was six hours ago. I failed. Now this facility, this monument to the lengths I was willing to go to, is nothing but a horror show. So I’m getting rid of it all, the facility, me, everything!”

Suddenly, a hatch opened up at C-1.0’s feet and he fell in. When he got to the bottom, the old man yelled down, “I’m sorry for everything, Clark! When this is over, don’t let life pass you by!”

Ten seconds later, the facility and everything in it exploded.

Blog Post by Joseph Chang

The Artist

On that day, a late June afternoon

Unaware was I, of the terror that was to come soon.

Following the suspicious reports of many

I came to face an artist whose presence seemed quite uncanny.

The man would inquire, how may he help me?

To which I allowed him to see the reports for which I came to see he.

But my suspicions would soon manifest

As I would find as the artist’s guest.

Soon I entered the man’s small, lonesome house,

Which showed no sign of a spouse.

A closer look would reveal something strange,

Paintings covering the walls with no apparent range.

Each of these, of another woman,

All with eyes that seemed to follow.

But what was stranger still,

Each I recognized as abducted and killed.

And with body’s faces never found,

Each case had never come around.

But at once, I felt an indescribable chill.

My heart went stiff, body to a standstill.

At a moment’s notice, I fled the site.

But the ensuing night, the house had vanished from sight.

Blog post by Alana Amai

Almost Happy Ending

He arrived randomly

On a spring day

Though we were surprised

He was welcomed in

Helpful and polite

Til the day that he died

And was no longer here

Leaving cause for fear

Though he was kind that was

His fate

Blood was splattered

No one was safe 

Everyone fled

Not wanting to be next

As a message in blood

By his abandoned body 

Said

All who are kind 

Will soon end up dead.

- Alana Amai

Blog post by Joseph Chang

 The Machine 

The galaxy seemed dim without any sign of life. The earth, the home which humanity had

inherited over hundreds of generations, teetered on the edge of destruction. Each passing day, the

ancient heartbeats of our celestial home grew fainter. The foundations of the earth began to groan and

shake, the fiery pits to hell rumbling in anticipation as if humanity had incurred the wrath of the gods.

Even the fierce and powerful sun, once a beacon of hope and source of life, threatened the destruction

of the world we knew it. By this time, many of us had accepted the inevitable and waited excruciatingly

for what was to come.

With this, the greatest minds of the earth were brought together. For months they toiled,

searching from the endless void of space to the farthest corners of the vast universe. So, at last, and

with much difficulty, their endeavors brought upon a hope. A machine which could capture the power

and might of the very “gods” which threatened humanity’s end. The machine. Though it contained the

potential to create life, it was a weapon of incomparable power and destruction. Regardless, it was our

one and only hope. Thus, the machine was created.  

At first the machine did nothing but good for us, giving us years of bliss and prosperity, but it

was a power too great to resist. The machine soon revealed itself to be an evil power, taking it upon

itself to bring about the end of mankind. It filled our minds with hatred and loathe, bringing its heavy

influence upon our every word. Soon after, the last and greatest of the Great Wars began, decades of

carnage and genocide, taking the lives of billions. Then came years of famine and disease, and with the

end of the Great Wars, it was done. We few who survived remain in this war-torn, hell-like world. The

earth’s life dims even more each day. Perhaps this was the very reason the gods sought to destroy us.

Blog post by Maggie Schmidt

Mary White Morris Acrostic Poem

My parents were respected

At twenty I married my husband

Robert Morris is respected too

“Young but dignified,” they said about me

We, women, are married into dignity

Hosting is my profession

In addition to the children of course

Trouble came to Washington 

Exceptional funds were provided by us

“Morris family saves US Army”

Our family, but just Robert

Rising fear as Robert was imprisoned

Rushed help came quickly but I declined

Independent I will remain

Society’s host

-Maggie Schmidt

Blog post Isaac Szepessy, inspired by Eastern State Penitentiary

 Prologue 

The notion of perfection is so often scoffed at—what a fickle, ludicrously unfathomable notion, the Man of Past would lark; the Pious Fellow would bark, only the Heavens held such notions; but the foolhardy Storeman promised to be a paragon of perfection, who sold products so polished and refined, and with the utmost solicitation, that one would believe they were dreaming up a world akin to—no, better than the Heavens! The Pious Fellow would cry blasphemy and heresy and all the other things ending in “y.” The Man of Past would scoff, just like many so often did, knowing all too well another storeman downtown sold better wares. The Storeman was no saint—that Storeman was a liar, and a no good liar at that. Refined? Most people are generally crude. 

The Tale of a Tax Fraudist: Johnny P. Hammocks 

You know, Great Auntie B. Bethuselah was pancaked by a drunk dump truck driver back in the day. Yeah, ol’ Bethusela got hit pretty hard. I’ve had so much time to think about it lately. I went to visit her poor ol’ pancaked self in the hospital that day. She told me, “Whatever you do, Johnny, don’t let life hit you as hard as it hit me.” Wise words. Yeah, she was hit pretty hard in life. But not as hard as when the IRS discovered I was committing Tax Fraud. I was a big deal businessman before I went to the slammer, I swear to it. And you don’t become a big deal businessman if you don’t have a few brain cells knocking about your noggin, you know? But the IRS hits you quicker than an alcoholic runs out of liquor. Did I mention Auntie B. was an alcoholic? Yeah, she survived that pancaking that Dan Daniels the dump truck driver gave her, but ended up dying from liver failure a year later. Rest her soul, I hope she is suing Dan Daniels from up above. Anyhow, one day I’m running my liquor store (hopefully no relation to Auntie’s ARLD), committing tax fraud like normal, and another day I’m serving two years' time at Eastern State Penitentiary—sitting in solitary to reflect on my tax-fraud mistakes, similar to how parents do a little finger point and send their children to their room for time out because they refused to pipe down. Or something or other.  

Man, those Quakers get me all riled up. They likely invented solitary confinement by reading a guidebook on odd and unusual punishments, written by Satan himself. I tell you, those Quakers are god damn devils disguised as prison progressives. It has to be, otherwise they wouldn’t be reading Satan’s guidebook on odd and unusual punishments. Yeah, those Quakers fooled me. Two years in a Quaker prison couldn’t possibly be that bad, I recall thinking. I would soon purge that thought.

When I arrived at Eastern State, there was a miasma of self-pity and self-loathing that stenched the prison’s fortitude.The beauty of its tall walls and that maudlin scent filled me with madness. Beauty and putridity—it was evil. The solitary system was not fully abolished yet, but the penitentiary was becoming lax; the practice of hooding prisoners was abandoned because of the increasing issue of overcrowding (a pungent issue indeed). Every so often, I could glance at the hopeless physiognomy of my fellow prisoners—a synchronous compendium of misery-ridden people. 

That first night, and each night to follow, the air would strangle me asleep. New prisoners that verged on some idyllic dream would wake to the sound of a fellow inmate crying out in terror from ghoulish nightmares. How painful it was to wake from one nightmare to another nightmare: the horror of a rancid and hellish cell block with floors either wintery or fiery to the touch. I came to despise the beauty of the prison, its hallways arched and etched in the dirt of misery-ridden people—most of us would have preferred to stay in that ghoulish nightmare that woke that fellow inmate with freight. At least it was something new. 

As the weeks went by, my old problems as a fraudulent businessman became so puerile. It turns out all it takes is no air conditioning, a prison food diet of starchy potatoes and peaches, and hours atop hours of solitary confinement a day. Who would have thought? It's when winter comes that those puerile problems become evermore puerile. Oh, by the way, most inmates aren’t actually crying out from night terrors, that was just dramatic overkill, you know? Anyone that actually makes a peep would get beat by the guards with haughty faces. Boy, those Quakers really are a lovely bunch. 

No, it’s mainly when you’re sitting with nothing but your own thoughts in a cell block that ostensibly shrinks and shrinks and shrinks and shrinks down and down and down until you feel terribly cramped by your own weight; your mind cries out silently in a craze of loneliness. The winter days and nights chill the prisoners’ hearts through and through. Many figures tremble on their wintery cell block floors. A few of them grasp their toilet seat as if they are trying to vomit a vileness; a plague that murders the rationation that sanity holds dear. When these nights come, there is no sound to be heard from the prison. Pious or not, each prisoner prays for the sorry soul in “The Hole.” In summer, the misery-ridden people sing a maudlin melody of mind. But in the winter, they sing a somber monody:                                                                    Please save me

I can't escape this prison

Nor she

Nor he

Only Grandpops is free

It's a wonder I have any humor left to talk about Great Auntie B. Bethuselah and her being pancaked and whatnot. I won’t say Eastern State Penitentiary ever harbored humorous moments; I won’t say there was some silver lining; I won’t say there was a saving grace; I can’t say I ever laughed. 

When I finally got out of Eastern State, the first thing my best friend Ed said was, “Johnny, you never laugh anymore. What happened to your sense of humor?”  

I would always say, “People laugh when you fall on your ass. What’s humor?” 

Yeah, life hit me pretty hard, I guess.